


the safest places besides home

by spidye



Category: Kingsman (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Caretaking, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-04-11 14:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19111876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spidye/pseuds/spidye
Summary: Peter was lucky enough to be born without wings. Eggsy wasn't.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok this literally slapped me in the nuts and i wrote it in a few hours,,, i expect to write more soon bc i'm on a kick for it but it's got next to no plot so please nobody expect anything incredible out of this SKDJFHS anyway my twitter is [@tarongerton](www.twitter.com/tarongerton) and uhh, yea. another happy landing (:
> 
> general content warning for exemplars being treated like shit

It’s not uncommon for Peter to spot them on his patrols.

They frequent the city, despite the strict laws surrounding them — many of them find places to sleep in the upper levels of abandoned buildings, the edges of rooftops, or even cell towers. But they’re never in sight for long. They always see before they are seen, hear before they are heard, and leave before they can be chased— nothing more than a flutter of wings and a blur of motion, and they’re out of reach for good.

Given his powers, Peter has a slight advantage, but it’s never been enough to get him up close with one. Just longer glimpses of what they might look like in person. The only time he’s ever _really_  seen them is on the news, on the end of some billionaire’s golden leash, their beautiful wings clipped down in the latest fashion, clean and close enough to keep them from taking to the air.

Because given the opportunity, Exemplars can and will fly the _fuck_ away from their captors.

The politically correct word is ‘caretaker,’ but given the Exemplars' treatment — collars, muzzles, absurd jewelry, restrictive and often revealing clothing, mistreatment, degradation, caging — _caretaker_ is the antonym of what they are.

Of course, an Exemplar can buy itself its freedom. If successful enough, it can even buy itself _homo-sapiens_ citizenship. A few have been known to undergo transitions to have their wings removed, to make them look ordinary. But these things cost thousands of dollars, and an ordinary Exemplar isn’t permitted to work, to drive, or to be paid for its companionship to its caretaker. It isn’t permitted to walk alone without proof of permission from its caretaker. Most restaurants won’t serve an unaccompanied Exemplar. Even more ironically, an Exemplar isn’t permitted to fly.

Which is what they have the fucking wings for, right?

“They’re people,” May had told Peter. “People just like us. And you shouldn’t treat them any different. How would you like it if people treated you badly because you weren’t like them?”

“I wouldn’t,” he had said. He was six, sitting on the living room floor, staring in awe at the winged humans displayed on the television— their bodies draped in linen, wings outstretched on colorful backgrounds. And then the images had changed, displaying a riot against Exemplars— baseball bats taken to wings, signs reading _LAB RATS WITH WINGS ARE STILL LAB RATS!_

May had stood to change the channel to a cartoon, kneeling in front of Peter and taking his small hands in her own. Peter's voice had been soft, sad. “Why does everybody want to hurt them?”

“Not everybody,” May said. “Not you, right?”

“Not me.”

“Then that’s two of us who love them.”

May had brought an Exemplar home, once. A man with tangled, shoulder-length hair and just one wing, battered and clipped down to nothing, its straggling feathers the same mottled brown as his hair. May had cooked him dinner, got him a fresh set of clothes and cut a hole for his wing, had let him use her rose-scented shampoo. He had said nothing but “thank you” all night, had kept away from Peter until the boy had climbed up onto the couch and curled up under his wing to watch the TV. Peter asked for a feather. May said no.

When Peter woke up the next morning, the man was gone. Two brown, clipped feathers were carefully left on the windowsill, with a note that read ‘Wings are the safest places besides home. Thank you for sharing your wings.’

But since then, Peter has never seen one up close for more than a few fleeting moments while swinging. He doesn’t chase them, despite how much he wants to— ‘friendly pursuit’ doesn’t seem like something a scared, cold, outcast Exemplar would take kindly to. He doesn’t need to stress them out more than they are. They’re people. Just like him. If they want to fly away, Peter decides, then they can do just that.

And they always, _always_ fly away if you get too close.

  
Which makes it more than strange when _this_ one doesn’t.

Peter had just finished his patrol, touching down with a gentle roll-landing in the alley a few blocks between Midtown and May’s place. It’s much later than he’d normally have been out, but May had taken a trip — with _lots_ of encouragement, reassurance, and persuasion that _I’ll be fine, May, really, you don’t have to stay home for me!_ from Peter’s end. Sophomore year is well underway and Peter feels like he’s really got the hang of the whole part-time Avenger, full-time student thing, which means that he’s cool to take a little bit of a later patrol tonight. His grades won't suffer. He already did his homework, and he deserved the extra few hours.

It had been fun, but _boy,_ is he tired. He’s just a moment from pulling his mask off, one arm inside the dumpster to retrieve his backpack.

Karen warns, “Peter—”

A flurry of wings. Something zips out from behind the dumpster, shoving the dumpster lid shut as it goes. “Holy sh—” Peter gasps, jerking his whole body away from it— the lid narrowly misses his fingers, which Peter now cradles protectively against his chest. By the time Peter can locate _it_ with his eyes, it’s plunged itself into the thick shadows at the end of the alley.

The only indication that it’s there are its bright, silver eyes, locked on him.

“You scared the crap out of me,” Peter laughs, breathless. “And I probably scared you, huh? Are you okay?”

It makes no move to leave or to fly away, despite how shallow the rooftops surrounding them are. If its wings were decently sized and unclipped, it could have been long gone by now.

But it’s still there. Silent, staring.

Peter’s heart sinks when he realizes that it had been probably _asleep_ behind that dumpster, and he scared the shit out of it. The dumpster lid might have cut its wing. He swallows thickly.

“—are you hurt?” he asks.

Silence from the alleyway.

“Shall I enhance your vision?” Karen offers.

Peter contemplates that for a moment, then switches his mask to mute and murmurs, “Nah, it’s okay. Let’s give them space.” It feels wrong to look at it without its permission. If it wants to be in the shadows, then in the shadows it will stay.

Karen hums. “I... doubt it will approach you of its own accord, Peter. They’re most known for their human-shy tendencies.”

“Well, it hasn’t run yet, has it?” Peter takes a cautious step forward. The eyes blink at him, twice. It doesn’t move away. It doesn’t approach, either. Just stays very still. Peter cocks his head to the side, switches his mask off mute, and tries again. “Are you hurt? ...Do you need a blanket, some food? A doctor? Something like that?”

At _doctor,_ it retreats a few feet. Peter mentally kicks himself, and the eyes of his mask droop. Of course it wouldn’t want a doctor— most of their childhoods are spent in labs, under bright lights and needles. Peter lifts his hands to display his palms. “Okay, no doctor. My bad. I just wanna know if you need help, that’s all.”

It says nothing, but Peter can see its eyes narrow on him with suspicion, not believing him.

“...I help people,” Peter says, more insistently. “That’s what I do. It’s kinda my job. And I really like doing it. I can help you, you know.”

It looks unimpressed. But the fact that it’s still here says something, at least.

_The mask,_ Peter realizes. Carefully, keeping his movements slow and visible, he lifts his hands up to pull the edge of the mask over his mouth and nose. Though its figure is still obscured by shadows, Peter can see it tilt its head, watching him with those silver eyes. “I’m normal,” Peter says. He huffs a little smile. “I can’t take it all the way off, but see? Normal. Just like you.”

Without any warning, it chucks a shoe at him.

Peter yelps, narrowly dodges it. Karen’s laughter bubbles into his ears. “Exemplars don’t generally take to human comparison,” she says. In the shadows, it’s stooping down to look for another thing to throw.

“Okay!” Peter says quickly. “Okay, okay, not like you— please don’t hit me with a shoe, I _already_ have a black eye. I just meant that I’m human.” He pauses. His lips twist into a grin. “Shoe-man, if you will.”

“That was horrible,” Karen says brightly. “You’re getting better at those, Peter.”

“Thanks, Karen.”

The Exemplar stares, holding its next projectile — a soup can — aloft over its head. Peter still can’t really see _it_ , but he can make out the shape of its arm in the dim light. He’s not sure what to do, or how to make it trust him. He’s sure that it wouldn’t still be here if it could fly away. It’s injured, then. And Peter desperately wants to help, but—

Thunder peals overhead.

Peter looks up at the sky. “Karen?”

“—It looks like it’s going to be really cold tonight, and this storm lasts until tomorrow morning.”

Peter swallows hard. If it can’t fly or get to safety…

He digs his fingers into his mask and tugs it off altogether.

“Look,” he says, breathes it. “Just _look_ at me _,_ okay?” He licks his lips. “Nobody’s seen my face. _Nobody._ You’re the only person in the whole world that knows who I am. I’m trusting you.”

Nothing. Those silver eyes just stare at him, round and bright.

Dry thunder rumbles on the horizon— it’ll start raining soon. Peter drags a hand through his hair and says, more urgently, “You can’t be down here when it rains. You’ll get sick. Or worse, the catchers’ll come by and you’ll get impounded.” It shifts uncomfortably at that idea, but still makes no move to come forward.

Peter chews his lip, contemplating his next move. His patrol is over. In front of him, an Exemplar, probably injured, maybe sick. On the horizon, a storm that the Exemplar likely has no means of staying dry in. A few blocks away, an empty, warm apartment with an extra bed.

“Come with me,” he says suddenly. It lifts its head, taken aback. Peter nods firmly and repeats, “You can come with me. My apartment isn’t far. It’s warm. My aunt isn’t home for two days and I have a bunk bed, tons of food — like, way more than either of us can eat — and I got a shower, a big TV. Even Legos, if you like those?” He inhales tightly, gestures behind him, but stalls out halfway through the motion. “I.. I know you don’t trust me. I get that. I just— I don’t want you to get sick out here.”

Infuriatingly, again, _nothing._

Peter stands his ground, not wanting to push forward any more, but with his face fully visible now, it’s easy to see his eyes glimmering in the dim light. His brows knit up with desperation, and the black eye oozes a little bit of blood from a cut that had been soaking into the mask before. It almost looks like a tear.

“I promise not everybody’s going to hurt you,” he pleads, softly, “and especially not me.”

It’s quiet. Only the muffled sounds of the city meet their ears. A siren, a few birds crying. The wind through the buildings. After a few long seconds, Peter sighs, heart sinking. His gaze drops to his feet, and then lifts to the dumpster.

“Alright,” he says, dejectedly. He lifts the lid as he speaks, feeling around for his backpack. “Sorry for scaring you. I just need my backpack out of here and then I’ll...”

He trails off when he looks up to the end of the alley. The silver eyes are no longer there. The shadows are empty— no Exemplar hiding in them. It must have gone.

A few large, heavy drops of rain plop down on the lid of the dumpster, and Peter’s posture wilts. “Great. Rain’s here, so much for making a friend, _and…_ ” He drags the word out. His hand thumps the inside of the dumpster once. “ _—_ my backpack is gone. Great.”

But when Peter turns to leave, his breath catches.

The Exemplar is standing just a few feet from him. The backpack dangles from the its fingertips. At his back, the Exemplar’s wings are tucked tightly against his body.

Peter can’t help but stare for a moment, awestruck— even filthy, covered in grime and dirt, almost unrecognizable, he’s an _Exemplar_ , an arm’s length away. Not on a leash, not on television, not in pictures, but right in front of him. Peter is struck out of his reverie when it shivers, wings and all, as the rain starts to patter down harder.

“Come with me?” Peter asks again, hesitantly. “Out of the rain. Please. I don't want you to get sick. I have plenty of room.”

He pauses, staring at Peter for a long moment, analyzing him.

  
And then, simply — as if to say _yes, please_ — the Exemplar holds the backpack out to him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes there will be a chapter 2 and beyond im gonna write it in the morning
> 
> and yes that was bucky!!! we wont see him again but he lives with sam now and sam modified his jetpack wings to help bucky fly again <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not at me posting the second chapter on day 2, who am i?

“Don’t do that,” Peter says. “Hey, I’m just trying to help you.”

He sidesteps a sopping wet, half-extended wing. In Peter’s bathtub, the Exemplar is sitting in a borrowed pair of Peter’s swim trunks, his chest hunched over his pulled-up knees. Peter is balancing precariously on a _completely_ wet floor — thanks, wings — wielding a scrub brush in one hand and a sponge in the other. The Exemplar is watching him, completely silent, eyes glinting with some mild entertainment at Peter’s inability to stick to the slick tile.

Amazingly, Peter hasn’t even soaped the sponge up yet, much less _used_ it on the Exemplar. All this happened in the three seconds it took to turn the showerhead on him for the initial rinse. Peter had told him not to shake like a dog, because he’s wearing nice clothes and he doesn’t want to get all wet. The Exemplar had just looked at him, water dripping over his wings, and then, with what Peter _swears_ was a grin, shaken like a dog.

So now everything is wet — including Peter — and nothing is clean. Including Peter.

Peter extends a hand to brace himself on, and hopefully _stick_ to, the wall. “This isn’t going w—” His foot slips out from beneath him and he goes down with a yelp. The Exemplar follows his movement with his eyes, leaning out of the tub a little to peer at Peter on the floor.

“This sucks,” Peter says matter-of-factly, staring up at the ceiling. His black eye has since swollen shut, reducing his vision to only half what it would be. The Exemplar’s eyes wrinkle at him, and Peter lifts his brows. “Oh, this is funny, huh? You like me soaked and dying on the bathroom floor?”

He pushes himself to sitting and rests there for a moment, huffing and dripping. May _must_ have had a better method of helping that Exemplar all those years ago, but this is all Peter can think of right now. He glances to the boy in the tub, quirks his lips. “You still want me to help with your wings?”

A nod.

“You gonna care if I get my swimsuit on and get in with you?”

A beat. It shakes its head at him.

So Peter stands, slogging his way out of the bathroom, leaving the Exemplar to sit in the shallow water of the bathtub and stare around the bathroom.

The bathroom itself is small, neatly organized. There’s a framed picture of a woman, a man, and Peter as a child. To the left, a spacious window, its glass frosted for privacy. He can still see the NYC skyline through the frost, though, all lit up in yellow at this time of night. Rain pelts the window and leaves a dozen hasty trails of water that fade as soon as they appear. He watches them for a bit, then shifts his gaze back to the countertop. His eyes narrow at the first aid kit. It looks well used.

He lifts his head towards the door at the sound of soft music coming from elsewhere in the apartment. It gets closer until Peter bustles in, now wearing swim trunks and carting a speaker, some folded sweatpants, and half a dozen towels. “Okay,” he says, depositing the towels and sweats on the toilet lid and the speaker on the thankfully-dry bathroom counter. “We’re gonna try this again. I’m gonna sit behind you.”

The Exemplar nods, tucking his wings close. Peter steps into the tub, kneeling behind him with the soap and his weapons of choice. “You want the water on?”

Another nod. Peter turns it on and opens the drain. Warm water drizzles over both of them, and both boys give a little sigh in unison as it chases away the chill. Between the music and the warm water, the Exemplar visibly relaxes.

“We’re going for soap,” Peter says, dumping a handful of it onto the brush. “Just tell me if I do something that hurts or you don’t like.” It nods and turns himself sideways, his back to the wall of the tub, carefully extending one imposing wing to Peter.

Peter’s hand hesitates over the length of the wing. The weight of this doesn’t escape him. Very few people are ever allowed to touch Exemplar’s wings — caretakers, groomers, impounders or wing-trimmers. All very rich, very _experienced_ people. And rarely do any of them have consent from their Exemplars, either.

But this Exemplar willingly has its wing in his lap and is looking at him expectantly. Something warm fills Peter’s chest.

He touches the brush to its wing in a long, gentle stroke. A small layer of dirt runs off the feathers and between Peter’s fingers, and he repeats the motion, slowly, until the brush comes away clean. He doesn’t want to hurt the Exemplar or scare him by moving too fast. Peter had expected his wings — currently an off-black color — to be true black beneath all the dirt, but as he works the brush over the length of the wing, the grime washes away to reveal a lighter color underneath.

Peter had been right about him being injured, but it must have happened days ago. The left wing is cut and oozing blood in several places, which Peter has to be careful to avoid irritating. When Peter gets too close once or twice, the Exemplar winces away, wing jittering in Peter’s lap, but he makes no noise. The worst of it is near the root of the wing, staining the boy’s back pink as the water washes away the dried blood. What’s interesting, though, is that his wings aren’t clipped. They’re fully intact — just roughed up.

The wings themselves are so massive that there’s no way for them to fully extend in the tiny bathtub, which means lots of shifting, bodies knocking up against the shower walls, water being splashed over the edge and onto the tiles. Peter abandons his slowness after getting a better feel for what he’s doing, but he stays gentle. It takes ten minutes to do the topside of the first wing alone — he does it twice. He'd initially been concerned by the number of feathers that detach, but the Exemplar casually plucks the loose ones himself and discards them over the edge.

“Okay,” Peter says, pulling away to inspect his handiwork and rinse the soap off of it. The finished wing is light grey, tipped at its ends with the same golden-blonde as the Exemplar’s hair, wet and sticking to his forehead. Peter’s hand stalls on the wing for a moment, breath caught in his throat. It’s only when Peter realizes the Exemplar is watching him that he snaps back to the present. “They’re really pretty. Sorry.”

The right wing comes after that, and Peter does it just as thoroughly. While Peter is focused on his wing, the Exemplar is studying him over his shoulder — the bruises over his eye, the way he draws his bottom lip between his teeth in concentration, the calm movement of his hands over the length of his wing. Part of him is determining if he trusts Peter enough to put his back to him for the base of his wings.

Through the speaker, Johnny Mathis croons out a soft rendition of _It’s Not For Me To Say._ Peter hums along, his arms moving in broad strokes, stopping every so often to carefully work the suds with his fingers between and under feathers that can’t be reached with the brush. “We may never meet again,” Peter murmurs, swaying a little to the music, humming the rest of the chorus.

He decides he trusts Peter.

Surprisingly, though, putting his back to him isn’t the hardest part. It goes quickly— Peter scrubbing up and down his spine with a washcloth, using the brush on the roots of his wings, his hands gentle and unintrusive. He’s careful with the deeper wounds around the root of the left wing, cleaning them enough to wash away the dried blood without hurting him. It’s relaxing, really, for both— warm water pouring over both their bodies, a tangle of legs and wings on the floor of the bathtub.

It’s the front that’s daunting.

Now facing each other, both cross-legged and knee to knee, the Exemplar has to extend his wings around Peter to give him access to the undersides. He holds very still, careful not to touch him with the wings or let them block the flow of water. While Peter works on washing the black off his feathers, the Exemplar can watch him with his full attention.

Peter’s torso and chest are bruised and cut up in a few places — nothing awful, it’ll be healed in a day or two. It’s standard fare for a late patrol. His hair rests over his forehead in a few wet, dripping curls, with little rivulets of water trickling down over his bruised eye and off his chin. He doesn’t realize how close he is to the Exemplar, so when a few gentle, curious fingers graze the bruise over his ribs, a chill runs up his spine. Peter flinches with surprise. He holds his breath, exhales slowly. His hands go still on the wing.

“It’s okay,” he says, watching the Exemplar from the corner of his eyes. “It’s not that bad.”

The Exemplar frowns and lifts his hand to touch the black eye. Peter stays still, letting him trail his thumb over his cheekbone, careful to keep himself from wincing. Quieter, Peter says: “That’s not bad either.”

He scrunches his nose at Peter, as if to say _It looks bad._ Peter snorts. “Yeah, I know. Believe me, I wasn’t trying to break any ribs tonight.” He turns his attention back to the wing, scrubbing the dirt off its feathers. “But I wasn’t trying to bring you home, either. And you’re here anyway, which is a good thing.”

By time the wings are clean, the bathroom has completely steamed up. Peter grunts and pushes himself up to his feet, stiff and slow. As he speaks, Peter sops the water off himself with a towel and flings the rest of the towels down to soak up the water up from the floor. “I’m gonna let you handle the rest, and I’m gonna go clean myself off, too, kay? When you’re done we can pick out a shirt to put holes in and I can bandage up the bad spots.”

 _Say something,_ Peter begs silently.

It just nods.

Peter hesitates, and then shuts the door on his way out.   
  
  
When the Exemplar is done, he wanders the apartment, looking for Peter. The music, still playing from the bathroom, is distant and muffled. May’s place is decorated in yellows and earth tones, with plants tucked away in corners near windows where they must get sunlight during the day. It’s small and well organized— enough to make the Exemplar tuck its damp wings close, hoping not to knock anything over. A record player shares space with books and vinyls on bookshelves on the far side of the living room, and he pulls one or two of the vinyl titles out to inspect them before carefully slipping them back where they had been. Above the record player is a smiling picture of the same man who had been in the picture from the bathroom. He reaches up to pick the picture up—

Hasty footsteps from the hallway, and Peter skids into view. It snaps its arm back to its side.

His eyes, wide and almost scared, are the same grey as his wings, which half-wrap around his body. With the grime washed from him, the Exemplar facing him is clearly no older than Peter, with blonde hair and fair skin, a few scars littering his torso. Without a shirt on, the boy's figure is clearly too slim; his ribs are delineated, easy to count. Peter frowns and makes a mental note to order a pizza before they go to sleep.

“Do you want a shirt or a sweater?” Peter asks. It blinks at him owlishly, then knits its brows. Peter gestures vaguely and repeats, “Y’know— shirt or sweater? C’mere. You can pick.”

It takes another long glance at the record player before following Peter down the hall to his room.

This room is smaller, messier. There's a bunkbed in the corner, a desk at the wall stacked with little figurines and DVDs. His suit is flung out on the bed. Peter has his drawers open, rifling through his clothes to find something large enough to slip on over the wings. “Here,” he says, holding up a loose, grey sweatshirt. “Do you like this one?”

Peter expects just a nod, but the Exemplar takes a few steps forward, reaching out to feel the material between its fingers. His expression lifts a little when he feels how soft it is. The nod is eager this time, and Peter, face half-unresponsive from the black eye, gives a lopsided grin in return.

“Soft, right? It’s my fave, too. You can put this on after I cut it and bandage you. Just hang onto it in the meantime, and, uh— let’s go out in the kitchen. Better light.”

With the sweater clutched tightly in his hands, the Exemplar follows Peter out to the kitchen, where he sits at the high stool near the kitchen’s island. Peter ducks into the bathroom on the way, grabbing up an armful of medical supplies, and then pulls up the stool beside him.

“This part will probably hurt a little,” he warns. “But it’s so you don’t get infected.”

Another placid nod. As Peter lays out some Neosporin and gauze strips, he wonders if the Exemplar simply _can’t_ speak.

With his elbows resting on the countertop, he drifts his wings open. Without the confines of the bathtub, he can extend them to their full length— stretching the freshly-cleaned feathers out, ruffling them a little to get air in the places that are still wet. The outside of the wing is a gradient of dark to light grey, with a few shorter, darker feathers trailing over the bones. His gold-tipped feathers brush across Peter’s palms, and Peter inhales sharply. The wings themselves are, despite their imposing size, sleek and trim, perfectly proportioned to his body. When Peter sets his hands on the leading edge of the wing, he can feel the muscles and sinews pulled taut just beneath the surface.

He stops himself from gawking any more and bites back half a dozen awed compliments. Exemplars get objectified enough.

Peter sets to work on the smaller wounds first, working ointment into the irritated spots and then bandaging them with care. Thankfully, nothing near the pinion is deep enough to need stitches, but there are a lot of _small_ wounds, which means that by time Peter has taken care of the majority of the wingspan, the wing itself looks like a patchwork quilt of feathers and bandages.

The injury near the root of the wing, however, does require a few stitches. The Exemplar half-bends his wing to lessen the tension and to give Peter closer access as he works the needle between skin and feathers with practiced movements. When he glances up to the Exemplar to see if he’s alright, the boy is still white-knuckling the sweater, his eyes locked on the tag in its collar. PETER is written in faded Sharpie on the tag.

“Do you have a name?” Peter asks quietly. He ties a little knot, snips the needle off the thread, and drops the needle onto the plate of equipment-to-clean in front of him. The Exemplar doesn’t answer aloud, shifting his wing to test the stitches a little, and then he wordlessly reaches into the first aid tray near Peter’s arm to grab a Sharpie.

As Peter works a little bit of ointment between his fingers to dress the wound, he watches the boy write on the tag, slowly, with a great amount of care. His hands block Peter from seeing what he’s writing.

“Wrapping gauze now,” Peter says softly, turning his attention back to the root of the wing. “Can you lift it up a little?”

He obliges, lifting the wing up and over Peter’s head. The other wing, uninjured, rests idly at his side. Peter scoots close enough to wrap the gauze around the root of the wing three or four times before cutting it and tucking it off.

“Kay, all done. We’ll change everything in the morning and maybe get you some antibiotics.” Peter reaches for the scissors, and the Exemplar pushes the sweater over to him to display what he had written.

    PETER  
AND EGGSY

Peter takes the sweater gingerly, trails his thumb over the neatly printed letters beneath his name. “Your name is Eggsy?”

Eggsy nods.

“Okay,” Peter says, mulling the name over. “ _Eggsy_.”

He can’t help but smile a little to himself, laying the sweater out flat on the counter. He marks off two lines on the back of the shirt in Sharpie and cuts them out, then pushes the sweater back across the counter to Eggsy, who immediately goes to put it on.

While Eggsy pulls the sweater over his head and wingtips, Peter scoots off the chair and grabs his phone, dialing a number on the fridge. When he turns to lean against the fridge, Eggsy’s fighting with the shirt— his wings are wrestling their way through the holes, half-extended, while his arms and head fight for which holes are theirs. It takes the length of the brief phone call for Eggsy’s head to finally pop out of the collar, hair unruly and face flushed from the effort. His wings give an indignant swish.

Peter giggles at him with that bruised, lopsided grin, and says, “I sure hope you like pizza, Eggsy.”


	3. Chapter 3

As it turns out, Eggsy does like pizza. 

Peter had gotten two extra larges, knowing how much _he_ eats and estimating how much Eggsy will eat, plus the grand idea that is leftovers for school tomorrow. While they had waited for the delivery to show, Eggsy had gone back over to the record player and peered at the labels on the vinyls.

He had been eager to pull out something that might make Eggsy talk, but no matter how many vinyls he lays out on the floor in front of the Exemplar, Eggsy is still dead silent, reacting only with movements of his head, smiles, or expressions of distaste. Peter decides, as firmly as he can, that he needs to stop expecting Eggsy to talk, because it’s going to frustrate him, and he doesn’t want to push his companion too much. Doesn’t want to scare him or chase him off.

More than anything, Peter wants Eggsy to still be there when he wakes up in the morning. 

There’s a number of artists that Eggsy brightens up over, but he finally picks out a Marvin Gaye album. It’s still playing when the pizza arrives— Peter has Eggsy stand out of sight while he answers the door and pays for the pizza. The last thing he needs to deal with is the ECS right now. Both he and Eggsy are far too tired, injured, and hungry to talk Exemplar Control Services down from taking a stray into custody.

That’s a priority in the back of Peter’s mind, should Eggsy stick around for more than a few days. Peter has no collar or any sort of fake identification for Eggsy. Any unidentified or properly uncared for Exemplar is taken into custody, groomed, and put up for caretaking, which, by the damage done to Eggsy’s wings, will land him in the possession of a less than stellar caretaker. 

Peter vows not to let that happen. 

Eggsy clears out five slices of his pizza without batting an eye. Peter has six. It leaves a few for leftovers tomorrow. The rain is beating down on the apartment as hard as ever, blending peacefully with the scratchy, soft beat coming from the record player. 

The record player stays on all night— a testament to how fitfully both boys sleep. Eggsy silently makes it known that he wants to sleep on the couch, despite Peter showing him the guest bedroom with a nice soft queen bed _and_ offering him the top bunk in his own room. 

“It’s a total privilege to get the top bunk, _mio amico piumato,_ ” Peter says proudly, his fists resting on his waist. “Super special.” 

Eggsy had just stared at him, unimpressed, and looked back to the couch. Perhaps it’s a matter of wanting to feel central to the apartment, or maybe it’s that Peter’s bed is visible from the couch’s vantage point— Eggsy can see him when he lies down. 

Either way, Peter doesn’t really mind it. It’s kind of a stand off at first. Eggsy won’t sleep before Peter does, and Peter won’t sleep first either. So they lay away for a while, sneaking glances at each other; Peter, with an ice pack on his eye and his phone held up enough to see, and Eggsy, with one wing draped on the back of the couch and the other on the floor, a blanket flung over his legs. 

Peter’s phone lights up his face enough for Eggsy to see the bits of red and swollen skin from where he had been hit. He stares while Peter is distracted by his phone, studying the way his fingers work diligently across the keyboard and how he draws his bottom lip between his teeth in concentration. The exposed wound on Peter’s chest — a long, criss-crossing hashmark — is already scabbing, despite having been bleeding earlier. 

Weird.

Eggsy frowns and turns his eyes elsewhere — the window. It’s ideal for an escape; at least three feet across and three feet tall when opened, with only a single flip latch on top. No security wires running to it, no bars on the outside, no screen. Just an open window to get out of at his earliest convenience. 

The record player reaches the center of the vinyl, bumping and scratching over blank circles. Peter, still cradling the ice to his eye and typing on his phone, stands and wanders out to the living room to flip the record and start it playing again. 

Eggsy tracks him with his eyes, allows himself to study Peter’s back, and keeps very still. Only a few candles illuminate the room. In the dim light, Peter’s spine and shoulderblades stand out with soft curves and definition. No wings sprouting from between those shoulders, no stray feathers growing out here and there. Goosebumps ripple across his bare skin, vacant only around the area of a few fading pink scars that litter his ribs. A few of the scars look similar to the fresh wounds on his chest — four deep and distinct crossing lines. Eggsy can’t help but wonder what the hell they’re from.

When Peter gets back to his bed, he flops down and opens up iMessage. 

**Today** 11:38 PM  
**P:** ned are u up  
  
**N:** Yes why  
  
**P:** can u make me a fake id  
  
**N:** ????  
  
**N:** What?? Why?????  
  
**P:** i cant tell you rn but i might need your help. i'll tell you about it tomorrow  
  
**N:** Uh... Okayyyy  
  
**N:** But if you're going clubbing I'm making one for me too. We have no idea how you'll react to alcohol!!!  
  
**N:** And MJ should come too. Official party mom  
  
**P:** i'm not going drinking, ned...  
  
**N:** Are you changing your identity?!  
  
**N:** Did someone reveal your secret!?!?   
  
**N:** Omg am I your witness protection program  
  
**P:** goodnight edward.  
  
**N:** -_-  
  
  


The first time Peter wakes up in the middle of the night, it’s with a groggy sense of panic that takes him a few seconds to identify. When he remembers — _Exemplar_ — he thrashes himself, flips over, and sits up on his elbow to check the living room. Eggsy, still awake, lifts his head to look up at him from his stomach-down position on the couch. He tilts his head a little, brows knitting.

Peter exhales and deflates, relieved. Still there. 

He lays back down, slowly, and waits for his mind to stop churning with adrenaline and fear. It takes him a few minutes to drift back to sleep. This repeats twice more, though less aggressively; he simply peers into the darkness until he can see Eggsy’s prone, now-sleeping form silhouetted in the candlelight. The rain muffles the sounds of his breathing.

The fourth time, the panic grabs his chest with a hot handhold that makes Peter wake up gasping. He launches himself into sitting upright, with his heart is hammering against his ribs and his hair is standing on end all over. Peter blinks and squints into the darkness of the living room while his eyes adjust. The candles are out.

“Eggsy,” he breathes. 

When he still can’t see enough, he yanks the covers off and stands, unsteadily, staggering towards the living room as quick as he can. The muted city lights are the only thing casting light on the floor of the room. There’s an audible _drip-drip, drip-drip_ of rain leaking _into_ the apartment— the window’s open. Wayward gusts of rain batter against the window and through the gap, sopping into the carpet and curtains. The record player is doing its steady _bump—hiss_ as the needle travels around the soundless inner portion of the vinyl, as it must have been for the past few hours. The microwave light glares out 4:03 in bright green letters. 

Peter, disoriented, kicks a table. He curses, hops on one foot for a second, before limping towards the dull, shapeless lump of couch at the far end of the living room. The blanket is on the floor.

“No,” he says, hands already out to feel at the couch cushions, “no, no—” 

Two great wings spread upwards at his touch, and Peter recoils as a head of mussed, gold-blond hair comes into view. 

“Oh.” 

Eggsy blinks those big, silver eyes at him, still swimming to consciousness. He pushes himself up on his elbows to get a better look at Peter in the dim morning light. Peter retreats a step back, suddenly aware of his intrusion of space, and rubs the back of his neck. 

“Sorry. I— thought you left. The window was open, and the candles,” Peter pauses, noting the blanket on the floor and the fine sheen of sweat on Eggsy’s forehead. He frowns. “Are you too hot?” 

A placid nod. Peter runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sloppily. He shuts the window. “Then I’ll turn the A/C on. The carpet’ll get stained if we leave the window like that, okay? Just ask me to turn the A/C on next time.” 

Peter sets the vinyl back into its proper spot to start the music playing again, and says, “You might have a fever. It’s actually kinda cold in here. Can I feel your—” 

When he turns, Eggsy isn’t there. 

“Eggsy?” Another bubble of panic. Peter whirls, searching the living room. “Eggsy, where are you?” The window’s still shut and latched; the front door’s shut, too, where could he have—

From the hall to the bathroom, Eggsy blinks at him, holding a stack of towels, and then moves past him to kneel and sop up the moisture from the carpet. 

“You,” Peter falters, “you were just getting towels, huh?” 

In hangs in the air for a moment, Peter’s implication festering into obvious worry. Eggsy sits back on his haunches to give Peter a _look_ — a clearly readable one that says, _This couch is soft, and it’s still raining. Why would I leave?_

Peter kneels beside him and blots a towel against the saturated carpet, no longer looking at him. He reminds himself that the paranoia is uncalled for. If Eggsy wants to leave, then he’s allowed to leave. He’s not a stick-bug that Peter found on the sidewalk and took home in a glass jar. 

He’s a person— a boy who would’ve been caught out in the rain, who’s _only_ spending a night here. Tomorrow he’ll be gone after Peter gets back from school and Peter’ll never see him again. Or maybe he’ll be gone in the morning, and Peter will wake up to an empty apartment.

A hand, pale in the moonlight, settles over top of Peter’s, and Peter goes rigid all over. With a great amount of care, as if handling a kitten, Eggsy guides the hand to settle on the base of his wing — where feathers become skin. 

Peter holds his breath with reverence, momentarily awed; the inner crook between wing and back is the softest and most sensitive part of the Exemplar’s wings, and contact there is reserved for groomers or intimacy. Peter doesn’t offer any movement of his own accord and, instead, waits for Eggsy to offer some explanation.

But Eggsy simply settles his own hand on Peter’s neck, with barely enough pressure to be felt. Peter sucks in an unintentional breath. Lithe fingers trail down each bump of his spine, making goosebumps race across Peter’s skin, until Eggsy stops his touch at the base of Peter’s ribs and tapers it off by tracing a small circle with two fingers. The motion makes Peter’s whole body tense with one word, a feeling so overpowering he nearly says it aloud: _Trust._  

It’s as profound as if Eggsy had said it aloud; those big, silver eyes, glinting like an animal’s in the dim window’s light, the moonlight glowing against his skin, his wings resting at his back. The message is clear. Eggsy trusted him. Peter needs to trust him back. His hand is just firm enough that he can feel Peter’s heart jackhammering in his chest, can feel the way his breathing tightens and shallows at the contact. _Trust,_ Eggsy wills again. 

“Okay,” Peter concedes, with a laugh. “Okay. I get it, Professor X. I trust you.” He pauses, letting his thumb brush absently along Eggsy’s skin, just underneath the hole cut in his sweater. 

And then, “Are you gonna be here when I wake up?” 

Eggsy regards him for a moment, and nods.

“Do you want to stay for good?” 

That seems to take him off guard. He blinks, brows knitting. Eggsy’s muscles tighten, as if he’s going to pull away from Peter’s hand, and his own hand drops from Peter’s back. 

“I know you just met me,” Peter adds. He trips on his words, trying to speak before his misconception can get too far. “I won’t— I’m not gonna hold you to it, but if you want to stay for longer than a few days, I need to do stuff— I need to make sure you won’t get hurt. You have to promise me you can be careful,” he licks his lips, “and you have to keep trusting me.”

The moonlight is starting to fade to dawn, and the interlocking shadow of the two boys, arms overlapping, is long and hazy on the carpet. Eggsy studies Peter’s face for some admission of ill will, for some treachery in those eyes — he suddenly notices how brown they are — but the only thing he can get off of him is hope, desperation, and more than anything, loneliness. 

But Peter has already looked away, eyes cast downwards, voice heavy with poorly masked disappointment. “It’s fine,” he’s saying, “you don’t have to stay, I shouldn’t have asked. It seems loaded. You can leave—” 

Eggsy settles his hand under the curve of Peter’s jaw, gently prising his attention back on him. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t nod— he doesn’t have to. The affirmation is clear by the smile that curves up his lips. Peter takes a moment to process it, and then his whole countenance lifts. 

“You’ll stay with me?” The last two words had slipped. Peter corrects himself, “Here, you’ll stay here?” Eggsy nods, and a smile splits across Peter’s face, chased shortly by a breath of laughter. 

“Okay, but you don’t wanna sleep on the couch every night, do you?” Peter says. “That’s why I got the bunkbed. For anybody who's my friend.” 

 _My friend._ It strikes Eggsy hard in the chest. His smile goes slack, body and mind tensing as he pulls away. His wings tighten against his back. 

“You don’t _have_ to sleep there,” Peter corrects, quickly. “Not right now. But you can. If you ever want to. What’s mine is yours.” 

 _My friend._ Eggsy takes longer than usual to nod. 

With the record still crooning its quiet, sleepy tune, Peter gathers the wet towels and dumps them in the laundry while Eggsy returns to the couch, laying face-down as he had before, staring into Peter’s bedroom. _My friend,_ he thinks. 

He thinks about the scars. He wonders what could possibly make Peter so eager to give away that title.

“Goodnight, _angelo,_ ” Peter says.

 _Goodnight,_ Eggsy thinks, _my friend._


End file.
